Shrek's Happy Ending
by Eyes like Dawn
Summary: Humans, dawrves, and fairies were not the only creautres brought to Storybrooke. A certain surly Orge was put under the curse as well. Shrek, now known as Sherman Cain is a plumber that will have to find his happy ending.
1. Prolouge

_A/N: Okay, so this plot would not stop bothering me. We're always hearing about those pesky Ogre Wars, right? Why are they fighting the humans and who is leading them? Who's the best ogre we know? Why it's Shrek of course! I know he's not from Disney, but I had to write it, guys. By the way this will be set in Storybrooke, and the other world. Also I will not write any more of this till I finish 'The Heart Won't Lie.' Tell me if you like this story!_

**I do not own OUaT or Shrek.**

**~8~8~**

He had been peaceful, once upon a time. He was a creature who loved his simple life, his simple homespun clothes, his simple log house, and his wife who was everything but simple. He loved her more than anything in the world.

Life had been good, in the dark marshes where the willow trees hung low to the brackish creeks, and the fireflies lit up the night as stars come down to play between the bitter root plants and the blue bells that grew by the tepid waters.

He loved walking with her through the muck and catching thick slugs and beetles and other delightful things with her. He had once lived an ogres dream life.

Life _had_ been good until the monsters came. They marched through his swamp garbed in steel and mail, carrying banners that fluttered through the swamp gas and reflected their shadows in the eerie marsh lights.

They were strange creatures of pink or brown skin, with beady eyes, and sharp features. They moved like swamp rats skittering through the night, acting bigger than they truly were. All of them were puny little gnats; a pestilence upon the world.

The monsters came with axe and sword, breaking down his simple home, yelling in their squeaky tones and in their foul tongue.

What had he done to them? He wondered as he fought through the blinding haze of smoke that forced itself down his throat. Why did these monsters have to come and destroy?

He searched for his wife, calling her name through racking coughs that shook his bulk. "Fiona, Fiona." Yes that had been her name, her beautiful, wonderful name that haunted him still.

She never answered his call. He barged through his simple, now blazing home, roaring for her, smashing the flickering wood with his bleeding blistering hands to try and reach her or provide a way of escape. But what escape? Into the jaws of those beasts upon horseback?

The house lurched, it groaned, and guttered like a drunkard barely on his feet, and toppled in a twisted heap of wood and ash.

Before the smoke had rid him of consciousness he could see the eyes of the monsters looking proudly upon the damage they had wrought.

"Good job, men, we've slain the foul ogres!" He had not understood those words at the time, but he grew to ponder and hate them as he learned their speech. He would use those same words in time, but against them instead.

He survived, unfortunately. He had awoken, blistered and chaffed and burned with only the swamp muck and drizzling rain to ease his pain. Once he could move in the throes of agony, he looked for her. His beloved Fiona, but she was nowhere to be found. Ash and rubble were all that remained in the heaps of destruction.

That was when he changed. Yes, he had survived the unwarranted attack upon his simple existence, and that was going to be truly unfortunate for the creatures he soon learned were termed as humans.

It is a different time now, years later. He stands as head of his ogre army, a green sea in mismatched armor amidst jostling and inappropriate joking. He stands at the lead no longer simple. He does not live a simple life, but one on the war trail pilfering and warring against the humans to rid the world of those monsters and fight them back to their stone hovels away from civilized ogres.

His simple homespun clothes have been replaced with magically forged steel and spikes. His helm has the horns of a yeti he slew with his bare hands and his war banner has the skull of a human above his pennant.

His once simple home is now a war tent or under the stars as his troops move into the monstrous human lands. They are frightening creatures, these humans. Small, miniscule, but frightening all the same. They are like poisonous bugs, tiny, but deadly if allowed to flourish.

And the most painful difference of all. He no longer has his Fiona. Whatever happened to her, he can only hope she didn't suffer. So now he fights in her name, to rid the world of the terrible beasts known as humans.

His name is Shrek; he is an ogre who has sworn war upon the human taint for the rest of his centuries.


	2. Sherman

Sherman Cain was a man that could be summed up in one word-hate. He hated his job, his home, the measly little town he lived in bursting with busy bodies who wanted to know everyone else's dirty little secrets, and of course he hated all people. To be put quite simply, he hated his life and almost everything in it.

An old beat-up black radio rang to life in the early morning hours, the red numbers flashing rhythmically in his face as the weather report came on loud and clear through the ear spitting alarm of the clock, greeting the citizens of Storybrooke to another picturesque day of sun and blue sky with rainbows and picnics and other foolish endeavors of that nature.

Growling, Sherman pulled back a swath of rumpled flannel blue blankets from his head, his blurry green eyes coming slowly into focus as he fought the urge to grab the radio and smash it against a wall just for a few more precious minutes of quiet.

But no, he had five appointments to keep today. Leaky pipes seemed to be bursting everywhere nowadays, and termites were having a field day munching on someone's deck. So the people of Storybrooke called for his services wanting him to get his hands dirty instead of their own.

Tossing the cover now completely off, the grouchy plumber struggled to rise from the lumpy, beaten checkered color couch that served as his bed. His hideous bare feet kicked aside crushed beer cans, that dribble the last remnants of their intoxicating elixir, and old crushed cigarette butts that fell from the many trays, as he stumbled to his tiny bathroom.

After reliving natures call, the surly loner turned to the mirror over top his dirty sink. He was a hulk of a man with short dark hair in a military style, his face was red from last night's heavy imbibing of beer, and his jade green eyes were blood shot. His body was hairy, corpulent, and thick, showing his protruding beer belly that hung over his belt like some badge of honor. His finger nails were dirty, he smelled somewhere in between dead cat and rotten beef, and he hadn't shaved in about a week. Yep, normal Sherman.

Scratching his chin he grimaced in the refection of the filthy mirror, almost wondering would the glass crack and shatter at the ugly image that danced in its pane.

The plumber stared at himself hard in the filthy reflection, something he couldn't help from doing every morning. Even though he tried to fight the urge. A calloused hand touched his grimy face warily, pulling at the flubbery skin as if it would peel off revealing a different man beneath.

He never felt quite right how he was, stuck in this sickly pale flesh that was so soft and easy to break. Even though he had tried to rectify the situation, by trying to change his life of filth and squalor, he had hated that even more than this existence.

Sometimes he wondered could he be a woman stuck in balding, overweight, drunk plumbers, body but even the universe wasn't _that _cruel. He was certain even the 'be yourself' types would whole heartedly agree that he should stick to being a man.

Casting the thought away by shaking his head, the surly loner cursed lowly as he turned away from the refection in the desperately needing to be cleaned mirror. He could ponder what was wrong and if he should try buying a pair of high heels tonight when he was in the midst of his usual drunken stupor, slowly dying watching mindless hours of brightly colored pictures dancing on a TV set.

Right now, however, he needed to prepare for work.

"Donkey." Sherman called in his gruff voice as he exited the tiny bathroom of his trailer. He grabbed a pair of holey jeans lying tossed away somewhere in his small abode as high pitch yipping began to come his way.

The plumber smiled as the fat wobbling pug ran his way. Donkey was just like him in some regards, ugly as sin, with his huge rounded eyes almost seeming to pop out his head, his floppy face so filled with wrinkles that sometimes it was hard to tell where anything was on his face.

The only difference in regard to donkey and his owner was that the pug was constantly cheerful and playing un-like Sherman who had been known to make people run down the street just with a furrowed glare or a whiff of his onion acid breath.

Despite the difference the usual taciturn, frown faced plumber found a soft spot for the dog somewhere in his artery clogged heart.

Patting the excited hound, the loner dared a quick smile as he ruffled the dog's ears. "Ready for breakfast, Mutt?" He asked in a chuckle.

The answer, as always, came as an excited sharp bark as the perky pug spun in circles in sheer excitement at the mention of breakfast his tail wagging at a blurring speed.

Another smile came unbidden to the monster of a man's lips as he stepped over the excited animal to the tiny kitchen. Now what to eat, Sherman thought to himself as he opened a cabinet over top his stove.

He was only greeted to the sight of one last can of dog chow and half a bag of chips stashed away in the corner.

With a sigh, Sherman took them both down, annoyed by the fact he'd have to go down to the grocery store to pick up more food. He liked staying away from others as much as possible, and the store ranked as one of his top five places he hated to go.

Popping the dog food open he splat it on a paper plate and put it on the table. Donkey immediately scaled one of the plastic chairs and hopped unto the dirty table to devour his meal with a starving gusto.

"Enjoy." Sherman spat thinly before he stuffed a fist full of crumbled chips in his mouth. To wash it down he did his normal sweep of his hovel to find any remaining beer cans that might have been spared his thirst or any half drank ones somewhere by the couch.

Satisfied that he'd found a half a cup of warm beer left over from his usual drinking night, the plumber did a quick sweep of his appearance. His pants weren't too muddy, his black boots where still intact and coated with gunk, and there was only a few brown beer stains that streaked down his sleeveless white undershirt. Yep, he was ready for work.

Grabbing an orange trucker hat from a hook tacked up to the wall, he grabbed his usual red steel tool chest that he kept by his flimsy screen door and walked out into the unfortunately bright, sunny day. One could always pray for rain, he noted with a sigh after he glanced up at the cloudless heavens.

His yard (and could barely be called that!) was a barren track of dirt with small patches of grass that vainly attempted to spread out. The only thing truly of his in the patch of nothingness was an old bug zapper and a white lawn chair. A few balls and Frisbees were scattered around the dusty ground, all left how they had come in, as children were deathly afraid of Mr. Cain.

He kicked a newly arrived football from in front of his cinderblock sets sending the toy wobbling away with all the others as he stomped to the dirty white pick-up truck beside his battered trailer. The side of his truck had his name and phone number. That red in bold red letters: Sherman Cain. Plumber/Exterminator.

Despite how he lived, Sherman was no simple idiot drunk; he had a pretty lucrative business being the only plumber and bug zapper in town. In fact, he could have afforded a nice home all his own, away from such dirt and loneliness, but he preferred it like this. Loneliness and squalor was his comfort zone, and no green back bills were going to change that.

Jerking open the truck door, her grunted slightly as he clambered inside, throwing his tool chest to the passenger seat so that the items inside rattled loudly sending shooting pain through Cain's mildly hung hover head. In his truck was an old yellow pad scrawled with names and dates and addresses. His 'schedule book' for all purposes.

Snatching it up he read the latest entry in the note pad; an address was all that had been given. Sherman smirked slightly at the one piece of information, so this person wanted very little contact. Today was starting off rather good then.

Putting his key into the ignition, the vehicle chocked and growled to life sputtering like an old man in a fit of bad couching, rumbling and shaking dangerously as the plumber sped out.

His screen door was left open as he departed so that the pug could let himself in and out at will. He never considered anyone robbing him, being that there was nothing much for anyone to steal except an old barely working TV that got all of two channels.

~8~8~

Thirty minutes later the battered pick-up rolled into a lavish drive sending gravel spewing through the air as it rumbled through. Trees were on each side as shade, the lawn lush with greenery, but rather bare, and a huge home that sprawled at the end of the lane. He knew who this home belonged to as he clambered out of his car and walked up the steps. Everyone knew who this place belong to.

He was about to pound on the door when it swung open, leaving the loner to grimace even harder at the person before him.

"Mr. Cain." A calm voice greeted him carelessly as if he could have been trash.

Sherman eyed the man inside the house, critically, his jade orbs narrowed in distaste. "Mr. Gold…"

* * *

><p>"We caught this one, chief!" Two ogres reveled excitedly as they raced back into the camp.<p>

Night was falling on the ogre encampment, but the night air illuminated with ash and the hazy glow of fire in the distance did little to tell the victors of the recent skirmish that. Cries of anguish could be heard on the harsh breezes that brought the stench of death in its wake.

Blood still spattered Shrek's armor, the scent of death fresh on his green, battered flesh, and blade as he turned to face the two that had spoken. He pulled off his helm and tucked it under an arm, eye the pair critically.

Both burly ogres held a struggling load in their grip that cried out and tried to swat at them as if that would make them release it. They dumped their cargo at their king's feet revealing a human male.

He was scrawny for a human, not like the ones he had seen riding into battle wearing complete sets of magical gilded plate with grand swords that could cut an ogre in two, or even the hardy foot men with leather and mail expertly wielding their spears. No, this was a weed of a human who looked like he had dumped some of his military gear, while some he had kept either in fear or necessity.

"We caught him running away from the battle; the little coward!" One of the ogres snorted in a piggish laugh as he kicked at the human.

Arching a hairless brow, the harden ogre turned to the quivering human who stared up at him in sheer terror…much of the terror he had known when creatures like him had killed his Fiona and burned his home.

A sneer crossed Shrek's face as he scowled at the two soldiers. "Why didn't you kill him? Look at him, he's just some fresh meat to put on the field, he's not worth anything. "He cursed at the two in his guttural language before raising his sword to come down on the man. "Don't waste my time for foolishness again."

"Wait!" The man shrieked in fright as he covered his head with his hands as if that would halt the blow from the massive and wickedly keen edged blade. "I have a wife and young son at home. I'm only a simple spinner. Please just let me go!" He pleaded chokingly, clasping his thin blood stained hands together pleadingly. "I won't ever raise a sword again, just let me live!"

He was desperate, Shrek could see that; the way his lanky body shuddered and trembled in the throes of terror, the open weeping of tears brooking down his face unashamedly; pathetic in all regards. Yet…the mention of a wife and son pierced the burly ogre's plated heart. Had he been so different ages ago?

With a roar, the ogre grabbed the human by the front of his dirty tunic, pulling him up. His breath was positively fetid as he held the human eye to eye. "Today is your lucky day, pink skin." He growled deviously. "I wouldn't want to dirty my blade on coward's blood."

"You…you're going to let me go?" The weed of a human asked chokingly, almost in disbelief the relief echoing in his voice. His fingers desperately tried to get around the ogres to loosen the grip but the monster was by far too strong.

Shrek nodded once; slowly almost to assuage the man's fears before he suddenly grabbed the human's right knee in his plated grip. With one tremendous squeeze and a yank to the side in an impossible angle, the ogre crushed it in one go.

A sickening crunch rang throughout the camp, like that of dead branches being broken over a knee, only far more sinister. The screams were enough to make his ears ring for days as the human cried out in agony. Blood and crushed particles of bone oozed over his green hand as the human screamed for mercy.

"A knee for your life. Is that a fair deal, human?" Shrek muttered as he let the man drop to the ground.

The human stared at him through tear filled eyes only managing a tremulous nod before half dragging half crawling away; still lucky he kept his life.

The ogre king watched the stupid frail human scramble away still bawling in pain as he made all possible speed out of the camp. Of course, at that time he had no clue what he had set in motion.


End file.
